


is your bedroom ceiling bored, like mine?

by I_am_a_grenade



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Bus, Cavetown references, Gen, High School, I really have no idea how to tag this at all, One Shot, Sad, Sody references, Song: is your bedroom ceiling bored, YouTube, its really just a vent fic, vent fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-18 02:02:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29481882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_am_a_grenade/pseuds/I_am_a_grenade
Summary: This is a vent fic. This is just how I'm feeling, and I find that writing it out makes me feel a little better. If you have a problem about it, please don't attack me in the comments, I'm really not in the mood for it.Title from 'is your bedroom ceiling bored?' by Sody and Cavetown
Relationships: None
Comments: 9
Kudos: 32





	is your bedroom ceiling bored, like mine?

**Author's Note:**

> I saw someone write a vent fic, and went, 'hey, that doesn't seem to bad' so here we go-
> 
> Also, this isn't proof read. I'll do it the morning or something. I'm just really tired and wanting to sleep, or stare at my phone instead.

Unhappy, unmotivated, downcast.

Scrolling through synonyms, trying to find one that seemed to describe the feeling that wasn’t quite unhappiness, wasn’t quite unmotivated, nor downcast. Was there a word that combined them?

dis·con·nect·ed  
adjective  
having a connection broken.  
"he expected the disconnected phone to start ringing"  
(of a person) lacking contact with reality.  
"I drove away, feeling disconnected from the real world"

Did he feel disconnected?

Was that this feeling, or rather lack of, that seemed to seep into his bones and plague his thoughts?

dis·con·so·late  
adjective  
without consolation or comfort; unhappy.  
"he'd met the man's disconsolate widow"

Perhaps. Maybe that was a little more accurate, though it didn’t quite seem to fit.

des·o·late  
adjective  
(of a place) deserted of people and in a state of bleak and dismal emptiness.  
"a desolate moor"  
feeling or showing misery, unhappiness, or loneliness.  
"I suddenly felt desolate and bereft"

He let out a sigh, frustrated. Out of all the words, this seemed to be the closest. Whatever this was, it felt like a combination of so many words. Dejected, gloomy, grim, bleak. Bare, miserable, despondent. 

It was like what you felt on a Monday morning, waking up to begin a week of pain staking school, wanting to stay in bed and sleep for another hour. It weighed heavy in his heart, his limbs. It crushed thoughts of motivation, and fed on this feeling, growing and growing.

Sometimes, it would disappear completely, for days. When it left, he felt novaturient.

no·vah·ter·y·ent  
adjective  
desiring (or seeking) powerful changes or alterations (usually in regards to one’s life, behaviour, or situation)

Novaturient was a word he found puzzling, a word usually used for someone who felt like soul-searching, or a breath-taking travel, or a break from one’s current routine and lifestyle. 

Sometimes, he felt that way, wanting a change in the same routine, the same lifestyle.

It could last for a week, until the indescribable feelings came with their claws to pull him away. 

He didn’t mind.

He didn’t think he liked novaturient that much anyway.

The indescribable feelings weren’t that bad. In fact, he welcomed them with open arms, embracing them with a soft smile and a laugh. When novaturient wasn’t there when the feelings were away, stress and pressure, followed by nervousness, awkward unmanageable feelings, and feelings of embarrassing dizziness filled that void.

It was easier to manage when he felt the heavy weight in his bones and the sinking tiredness that fogged his brain. 

Maybe he didn’t like that feeling as much as he told himself. But it was easier to say that he did, because if he didn’t, what was he to do?

Breathing out a sigh and rubbing tired blue eyes, he pushed out from the padded chair, being as quiet as possible. It was 2:00 in the morning, he shouldn’t be awake at this hour. His parents wanted him to sleep earlier, getting more rest. They believed him when said he had trouble falling asleep that night when they asked why he was tired in the morning.

They thought he went to bed early every day anyway.

Slipping towards the drawers that held soft pajamas, he collected a bunched up pile of them from beside the dresser, not wanting the squeaky wheels waking anyone.

Tossing them on, he slid into the comfort of the layers of blankets, brushing off as many feelings of tiredness as he could.

He didn’t want to fall asleep.

The silence at night he loved so dearly. It didn’t seem to mock him, or laugh, or ignore. It listened to his loud thoughts, to his quiet ones, to the rustling that felt so loud in the quiet house at night.

It was the only time of the day he could get without being disturbed or bothered, to let the feeling of desolate rest peacefully in his bones and thrive.

Eyelids began to feel heavier, weighing like boulders on flickering eyelashes. At last, he stopped struggling against it, welcoming sleep, for it was so so simple, requiring no effort, and desolate loved that, loved that feeling of nothingness. Sleep did not leave him desolate, like novaturient. It was similar to the stress that poked through even during desolate days.

Hours later, the sounds of an alarm blaring awoke him from sleep, and he groggily checked the time, smacking the top of the clock with a closed fist, closing his eyes once more. The sound came back what felt like seconds later, though he knew it was minutes. Smacking it once more, he turned, grumbling.

The third time it beeped, he dragged tired aching limbs from the comfort of sleep in the layer of blankets that swathed him, keeping him warm.

Cold wood met sticky feet, which padded into the hallway until they touched tiled floors, white and stained. Flicking on the bright light, he splashed water on his face, gripping the sides of the water basin as he looked in the mirror. 

Bathroom lights had a way of making someone look ten times more tired, more dead, he decided. Glancing away, he gripped his toothbrush and did the morning routine, before heading back into his room to slowly get dressed. Shaky legs from lack of food dragged him down the flight of stairs to the main floor, towards the kitchen.

Faint morning light dripped through the back windows, and he smiled. It wasn’t bright and blinding like the bathroom lights. It was dim and easy on his eyes, not dark enough to not allow any sight. 

Debating on getting a bowl of cereal, he swung open the cabinet, eyes meeting with unappealing flavours and types of brands he’d never liked. He walked away as the door closed, deciding hunger was a better option before sitting at the island.

Mindlessly scrolling through texts sent hours and days ago, he ignored them once again. When novaturient came to say hello, it could deal with talking to people he currently didn’t have the energy to.

He wondered, for a moment, if the people he talked to ever felt this way.

Flicking downwards on his screen, he dragged the display screen down, covering up the text messages completely.

A bright white 7:36 awaited him, so he headed towards the front hall, grabbing a pair of boots and throwing on his jacket and hat.

Slipping his mask on his face and his backpack slung onto his back, he opened the front door and stepped into the cold winter morning, the sky holding no traces of the sun only a half an hour before. It was grey and wet, snow bound to fall soon.

The mask on his face kept it warm, and he shoved frigid fingers into insulated coat pockets as he strolled to the bus stop. 

He waited at the bus stop with the others that attended school that day, no one talking.

Did these people, the ones he saw whenever he went for his specific school days, ever feel desolate? Were they familiar with the heavy weight in his bones and the ache behind his forehead, caused from listening to music to ignore the silence during the day?

The yellow bus parked itself, and he silently got on, sitting down before gazing out the window, watching the world fly by.

Carefully undoing his backpack, he pulled out his wireless earbuds, slipping them in, awaiting the automated voice that said, connected before he pressed play on spotify. 

Cavetown seeped into his ears, investing his brain.

‘Is your bedroom ceiling bored, like mine?’

Was it?

Briskly walking into art class, he sat in his assigned seat, unzipping his bag to pull out his supplies before the morning announcements came on.

He watched as people he barely knew or didn’t know at all filed in, one in particular smiling bright;y at him and greeting the blonde as they sat beside him.

“‘Morning.”

Perhaps the feelings that were like novaturient, such as happiness and joy, would feel bad for such a bland response. Desolate didn’t, because desolate didn’t judge. 

The buzz of the announcements made chairs screech, and he followed suit, standing.

Legs itched to sit, and fingers buzzed. Non existent eyes watched him as he fidgeted in the classroom, everyone paying attention to the anthem. They ended, and everyone sat, and he wondered how much of a fool he made of himself as he sat.

Had he sat too quickly, too slowly? Did his chair screech too loudly?

“Today guys, will be doing portraits for…”

He knew the assignment, having had it briefed the previous days when he’d been online, so he blocked it out, focusing on the lyrics of the song currently playing. 

‘Feeling sick of myself, think I’ll try to be someone else.’

Sweet tooth seemed like an upbeat song, for such a beginning to the lyrical masterpiece. 

‘Can’t be hard to paint a person, in my head create a version, the parallel.’

He knew by the way the fuzzy buzz of the teacher's voice stopped that he was supposed to work, and pencil met paper around him. 

He stared at what novaturient had started days before.

Desolate didn’t feel like it wanted to do that today, so he flipped open his sketchbook, doodling random things instead. 

So Tommy ignored the teacher's gazes in his direction, gauging if he was doing the assignment or not. He didn’t particularly care. The project would be future Tommy’s problem, not presents.

It's what he’d always done anyway.

Perhaps this wasn’t desolate right now then.

Unmotivated seemed more fitting.

He ponders if it was due to being considered smart for so long, hearing the teachers tell him he was smart, his parents and relatives as well. The good grades for minimal effort that came easily made high school seem harder.

The only reason he’d do it later was due to the fact he’d gotten an honour role the year before, and his mother expected him to get it this year as well. Otherwise, he wouldn’t even try.

Tired of doodling, he opened his phone, clicking on discord, before switching accounts.

Tapping on his favourite server, he chatted with people he found comfort talking to, who knew nothing of him, didn’t realize he was Tommyinnit.

The beauty of being anonymous.

He listened, or rather read, as someone began to vent about how they didn’t feel like drinking or eating, couldn’t get sleep. He offered support, doing what he could. 

It made him feel better, made desolate less heavy as they thanked him. 

A low rumble from his empty stomach growled, and just like every other time it did in class, he regretted not grabbing a granola bar before he had left the house. 

“Guess….and then…., huh Tommy? Haha.” the teen beside him made a joke he didn’t quite have the energy to understand or absorb, so he simply laughed along, making a hum of acknowledgement. 

It would be rude not to anyway.

An hour and a half later, class ended and he clambered back onto the bus, relishing into the undisturbed silence on the bus as they drove, doing so even on the walk home, through the bitter cold. 

Stepping through the front door, he was greeted by his mother and dogs, who bounded happily over. 

“Hi Betty, Walter. Hi mum.”

“How was school Tommy?” she asked, flicking off the vacuum to hear his response.

“Meh, it’s school.” the same response he’d always given slipped out, and she nodded before flicking the vacuum on again and continuing her work. He sped upstairs, throwing his bag onto the crumbled bed sheets before going back downstairs to get food before his second class started. 

Opening the fridge, he was greeted by fluorescent lights and stacks of leftovers he was supposed to finish off and never did. Ignoring last night's pulled pork sandwich, hands landed on eggs and carried to the stove top. Grabbing a small black frying pan and putting it on the warming burner, he slathered it in butter, listening to the gentle crackle of melting butter. 

Grabbing an english muffin from the pantry and placing the two halves into the toaster, he pressed it down before grabbing the cheese from the fridge. Cutting two thin slices, he placed the block back down along with the knife before he strode over to the stove, cracking the eggs in half.

The sizzle became too loud, and he no longer liked the sound. 

The toaster popped, and he jerked the lever upwards, watching as the english muffins moved upwards so they were easier to grab. Placing them onto a plate, he buttered them before going back to the eggs and flipping them.

By the time the eggs had been placed on the muffin with the cheese and ketchup, it was cold, but he was too tired to warm it up. Sitting down at the island for the second time that day, he ate silently.

Finishing up, he ignored the pestering voice that reminded him to clean the lunch dishes before he headed upstairs to set his computer up for his school meet. 

He’d do them later. 

Half an hour of Youtube watching later, the teacher’s boisterous voice filled his room, far too happy for a Wednesday morning. His peers' voices filled the call, and he tried to drone them out.

He waited for his class to officially start, and then attendance was taken. When the teacher called his name, he typed in the chat, passing off the lie of a broken microphone like the days before, and she thanked him for reminding her. 

Guilt settled in his bones.

Opening up another tab, he continued to watch Youtube videos, finding comfort in the seemingly mindless activity. 

When his class ended, he continued to watch the videos, before flipping to his courses to check what he’d missed, making mental notes to start them later that night.

He knew he wouldn’t, but at least he now knew what the assignment was.

The familiar knocking on his door that came at three each day made him mumble a ‘come in’, before the white wood swung open.

“Tommy, your school over?”

He knew that his dad knew it was, that he was asking to start him talking.

“Yeah, it ended a while ago.” he responded with a sigh at the end, which fell on deaf ears.

“Why don’t you come out of your room, come hang out downstairs?” his dad asked, smiling a too happy smile that he hated.

“I’m alright,” he answered, knowing that it wasn’t the answer he was supposed to give.

The creak of his bed indicated his father had taken a seat.

“Tommy, come on. Come _socialize_. Stop watching those weird minecraft videos. I don’t understand what’s so interesting about watching others play the same video game that you could be playing instead,” his father said, grumbling something about ‘kids should be outside, not being lazy inside’. 

He didn’t fight the comment, learning long ago that it only resulted in a conversation that made him want to cry, as no matter what defense he came up with, it would be countered and unheard. 

“Why don’t you take the dogs on a walk?” He didn't want to take the dogs on a walk. He wanted to sit beside his heater and watch videos and pretend like he was fine, that he wasn’t feeling like he wasn’t himself.

“Maybe.” he mumbled. And his father got up, sighing. 

“If you don’t stop watching videos all the time and doing nothing, I’ll shut off the wifi,” Tommy’s dad warned, and the desolate disappeared, replaced by fear.

“I’ll take the dog on a walk, don’t turn off the wifi, please,” it sounded like begging, but he refused to say it was.

It wasn’t like he minded the wifi being off, more the fact that if it was off, he didn’t have an option to go on and talk to someone if he wished too. His data had been used for the month, so he didn’t have a backup, and the fear of having no one to vent to about the invisible weights was crippling. 

“Alright, alright, I won’t turn it off. Just...just do _something_ , _anything_ other than sit here all day. It's ridiculous. You're incredibly lazy, look at this room! It's a mess!”

And then his dad was gone, and he was left with guilt.

As easily as it usually was to ignore it all and continue to watch videos, the fear of the wifi going off sent him to his dresser to grab a comfier sweater and socks and head downstairs. 

Whistling for his dogs, he leashed them up and began to bundle himself in winter parallel. 

“Well well, looks like you’ve come out of your ‘cave’!” the familiar voice of his mother drifted to his ears, and he bit back an angry comeback.

He didn’t know why it made him so angry. 

“Made him come out so he’d walk the dog, everytime he emerges I expect him to look different he’s been there so long,” and they laughed as he joined in, and desolate became heavy, accompanied by a quick start flame akin to anger.

Opening the door, he dragged the dogs outside, pushing his earbuds in once more before blasting his music. 

He walked and walked, and he wished he could walk longer, but his legs were cold and the dogs would freeze.

But he didn’t want to return home, not for another little while.

Yet he did.

He let the dogs off their leashes as he came back inside, shedding his jacket and boots and hat, walking into the kitchen.

Novaturient peeked its head out.

“Hey mom, did I tell you about the new character arc for the SMP?” he asked, sitting at the island where his mother currently resided. 

“No, you haven’t, do tell.” she said, attention averted to her phone, likely checking the news. 

“Well…” he began, and he animatedly told her about it. Halfway through, she interrupted him, looking up from her phone.

“I’m sorry sweetie, I wasn’t listening.”

It wasn’t unusual for this to happen, but it didn’t make it hurt any less. 

“It's alright mum, I know. It wasn’t that important anyway,” and he smiled it off, because what else was he supposed to do?

Bitter thoughts plagued his mind as he got up, heading back upstairs towards his bed.

Why did they ask him to come down if they didn’t care much anyway?

Minutes later, his father came back.

“Your mom and I are going out to have a drink with the neighbours, watch the dogs, okay?” 

He nodded, heading downstairs, Betty and Walter greeting him by pawing at the back door. 

He let them out, before going into the main part of the kitchen and slumping down against the cabinets. The lights were off, and the room was dim.

A familiar feeling that clogged his throat started before he swallowed and it was gone. He wanted to cry, to cry and cry and cry, but he didn’t want his parents to walk in to see him crying, so he refused to allow the feeling to overtake him. 

He wished he could take a shower, to cry in there where they couldn’t be heard over the thrum of water and unseen by the droplets, but his parents didn’t want him to be in the shower when they weren’t inside, in case he fell and hit his head.

So instead he sat in silence, watching the light slowly grow darker and darker, wishing COVID would end.

Covid was the problem, really. He hadn’t ever felt this bad before it started. If covid ended, his parents could go out of the house more, go to work. They wouldn’t be home all the time, and he’d love that, love being able to sit for hours on end without being interrupted. 

He could take showers because by the time he was out they’d still be gone. He could stay in his room and stare at the ceiling. 

And when novaturient came on those days and he cleaned his room, they wouldn’t notice, nor care because they’d be too preoccupied with other work-related things. 

When they were home and didn't notice when novaturient was around, it hurt. They’d make a joke about how his room was still messy.

It's hard to make change when it's brushed off as if it isn’t so difficult. 

Getting up, he let the dogs in before lying on the couch and waiting for his parents to come back in.

They did, and they started dinner, and he went to his room to block out the sounds of pans clashing.

“Tommy, time for dinner!”

And he was at the dinner table, feeling like he couldn’t eat.

He knew he’d have to eat it. He’d asked before, why he couldn’t just eat alone like other kids and their families. ‘Eating together helps a family stay together,’ they’d reply. ‘Just because someone else does it, doesn’t mean you have to.’ 

‘What if I’m not hungry? Can I skip dinner?’ ‘Don’t be ridiculous Tommy.’

So he ate, even if he wasn’t hungry.

Maybe he should skip lunch so he’d feel hungrier at dinner. 

After he’d stomached the food, he cleared the table, as it was his dish night, and began to fill the basin and dishwasher. 

Slipping his earbuds in yet again, he played music as he submerged his hands into the water.

His parents didn’t bother him when he did the dishes. He liked doing them, the feeling of warmth on his fingers and the mindless, mundane task lulling him into a feeling of peace. Yet he was finished all too soon.

Pausing his music, he heard his uncle’s voice float into the kitchen from the living room, and he stumbled in.

Greeting his uncle, he sat on the couch, being polite and spending time with his family.

It was what they wanted, right?

“Tommy, tell your uncle about what you do in your room all day,” and anger bubbled again. 

It was something he’d grown accustomed to, his mother bringing up what he was interested in when relatives of family friends came over. It wasn’t his art, or his grades, or his reading or extracurriculars, rather his love for video games and watching videos of them. 

“He watches other people play video games! Honestly, it’s a waste of time. Tommy, tell him about it!” and he didn’t want to, oh how he hated when she’d do this, but he laughed instead.

“I, uh, actually find it quite interesting-” he began, trying to salvage something, before his uncle ignored him and told him how his son, Tommy’s cousin, did the same, thinking he could make money _‘money, money off of this ridiculousness’_ streaming it. He ignored the voice that protested that people did it every day.

Excusing himself, he made his way upstairs, saying he had homework. It wasn’t a lie, he did, but he wasn’t going to do it.

And he hated himself for it, hated himself for not doing anything to change himself when desolate came around.

He wondered if it was something like depression, or just general sadness. He thought of mentioning it to his parents before scolding himself.

His mother would think he was making up illusions of mental illnesses he didn’t have. 

So he chalked it up to being too many screens causing his lack of attention, his draining motivation. It was true, too many screens did that. Studies had shown that it had. 

Where the desolate feeling came from, he didn’t know.

Deciding to take a shower, he walked into the bathroom, flicking on the lights and water. 

Minutes later, he was soaking up the heat from the water, thinking far-off thoughts.

He wished he had a job, but he wasn’t able to due to covid, his parents refusing to allow him to. He didn’t need one, not really, but hours away from this house, free from the constant nagging? Having a reason to be motivated? 

Plus, the money would be nice. He could save for a place when he was old enough to live alone, to have his own apartment. 

He’d mentioned before, to his parents, how he’d like to move out, live in an apartment in a big city. 

‘It's not all sunshine and rainbows kid.’

He knew that, but they didn’t seem to realize he did, deciding to scoff at his childish delirium. 

It was alright, he hadn’t really expected them to listen, to understand. 

They’d grown up in families where they’re parents weren’t constantly nagging them, allowing them to get into trouble, and they didn’t want the same for him.

They cared, they just don't understand.

Didn’t understand how the underhanded comments hurt, no matter if they were jokes. That ‘you're too sensitive’ just made it worse. That he didn’t _want_ to feel this way, that he wanted out, wanted out and away, far far away. 

Had they ever felt this way?

Felt this feeling in his bones that pulled him to the ground, that absorbed his feelings, mde him want to cry yet not letting him to, to pull his hair out and sleep forever?

That he wanted to be able to do his homework without losing focus and track halfway through and giving up on it, knew he needed to, but was not able to.

And it was an endless loop, unbreakable and seemingly unshakeable. 

And then there was that one crippling fear, that one voice that asked if he wanted it to change, wanted the predictable loop to disappear. 

Selfishly, he wished it stayed, because he didn't mind feeling sad all the time. It didn’t require effort, like happiness did, or motivation. 

Just like the night before, he stayed awake that night, wishing for sleep to never come yet wanting it to last forever.

Like a Monday morning, or a Monday in general. 

He couldn’t help but wonder how long it would last. 

Are these feelings supposed to last so long?

**Author's Note:**

> My family is perfectly fine, my parents are great people. They're looking out for me, it's just sometimes I feel trapped. This is all this is. I love them very much, just sometimes they can be overbearing.


End file.
